Necromancers were never to enter the Halls of the Dead. Yet, here he was, seated at the worn wooden table while the elderly priest urged a mug of tea in his direction.
It was the burden of the conversation which never truly left him. The worries it revived drew over him in shadows and whispers, a crypt which he swore to exit decades ago. He could roll the warm mug of tea between his palms all he wished; he could remain in the silence; he could achieve all of this and more in the mere moments it took for the priest to summarize the Hall and its purpose, recount its history. Relentless in its manner, against all his best wishes, the discussion the prior night did not tug itself from his shoulders, a black shroud all his own, head grown heavy with the weight of it.
The three Mer had entered the Hall in the early noon and - against any evidence - expected a cool reprieve from the Hearthfire day outside, but were instead met with the opposite: candles in every corner, a crackling hearth, and over all their heads, the chandelier. The Nord greeted them kindly. His smile, an easygoing feature on his weathered face, pushed the fine lines of his eyes into deep crevices. The bony knots of his finger joints were surprisingly nimble as he set into motion to make the three as at-home as possible. And the voice in his throat, worn by the years, maintained a steady sound as strong as the trees which towered over the mountains outside of Solitude. It had been an idea proposed by the priests in the Temple of the Divines to come here, to see the old man, to hear the history of the city from the priest of Arkay who had lived through so much of it. He knew more than anyone the ins and outs of the ancient fortress, and he knew more than anyone its secrets.
This scrap of information lead them here, natural consequence, chairs pulled close to the chipped wooden table, nursing a brew made from the local flowers and plants. The green, clay teapot, old and well-loved, had been glazed during its creation so as to hand back to its owner a distorted and dim reflection of the world around it. Wyndrelis would only eye his drink. Gently drum his fingers along the sides of the mug. Arkay was the natural enemy of any who practiced the mage's specific arts, and while he no longer saw himself as a full-time necromancer - nor did he consider himself a religious Mer - the inclination to avoid pissing off the Aedra was naturally engrained in him since birth. Growing up in Cyrodiil left its marks on him, in more ways than one, the evidence of his childhood education still marring his thoughts, even now.
This whole affair began in earnest that morning. The day, one closer to the beginning of lessons at the Bard's College, hummed above their heads. Tomorrow, he would wake, dress, and prepare himself. He would sit in one of the long benches in one of the many classrooms. It was almost laughable how familiar he'd found the notion as he'd eaten his breakfast. The constant lectures, little breaks, and assignments that he would roll his sleeves up and finish as fast as he could. He'd never once entertained the thought of becoming a bard, but things change.
He'd headed to the library the moment the meal had finished, which he found to be a large, open room, decorated with marble busts and paintings on the walls, tapestries joining them, and beneath his feet, ornate rugs. He'd looked to the high, vaulted windows, which drew pools of sunlight down against the marble flooring. He had marched to the shelves, eager to glean anything he could from their contents. Pressing a grey finger gingerly to the spines as he muttered their names under his breath, Wyndrelis took the time to note the placement of them, as well, so as to return everything where he had found it. However, each tome left him more disappointed than the one before it. The Real Barenziah, The Askelde Men, Feyfolken, Songs of Skyrim...
"What're you looking for?"
The voice startled him, Wyndrelis whipping around to peer at its origin. A young, Redguard man stood with a hand on one hip, his dark blue, puff-sleeved shirt accented with gold brocade around the neckhole. His vest was an equally bright shade of gold, fastened with mammoth ivory buttons. Wyndrelis took in the sight of him, his bright smile, his cocked brow, and the extravagance of his clothing.
"Do all bards dress so... Ostentatiously?" Wyndrelis forced a nervous chuckle as the words left his mouth. The man waved a hand, dismissing the notion.
"Trust me, when you meet Lady Ateia or Headmaster Viarmo, this"-he gestured up and down to himself-"will appear tame by comparison."
All he could do in return was to bite his tongue. He had met Viarmo, alongside having met Giraud, but not yet this Lady Ateia. He was right. These articles were tame. He'd turned his attentions back to the bard in time to see that his palm was outstretched, and Wyndrelis awkwardly shook it as the bard introduced himself.
His name was Ataf, and he claimed to be the youngest bard at the college. He'd explained that the rumor of new students circulated the entirety of the grounds for several days, but he'd not discovered whether they were true.
"You had some questions for me about Solitude, then?" The Nord asked, his voice bringing Wyndrelis back to the present moment. He blinked, the sound of Emeros clearing his throat cutting through his thoughts as he focused his attentions back on the Bosmer.
"Yes, we'd been at the Temple of the Divines, but I'm afraid we found no answers there." The Bosmer took a sip of the tea, letting it rest on his tongue a moment. The Dunmer did not repeat the action. He glanced to Athenath. The Altmer had not attempted to drink the mixture either, but he understood why; the liquid was still steaming hot, and the fact Emeros could withstand it was one that the Dunmer found a tad surprising. It almost appeared as if the other Mer savored the taste and temperature on his tongue, quiet in contemplation of it before he swallowed and gave a few small compliments to Styrr for the brew, the notes of jasmine, the richness.
"Well, you've come to the right place. I practically grew up in the Hall," the priest began with a soft chuckle, the kind of which made him feel all the more as a grandfatherly figure many lacked in their lives. He elaborated shortly thereafter that his parents had, too, been a priest and priestess of Arkay, and that the family had lived in the Hall his entire life. He'd longed for nothing more than to emulate them, to be as dedicated as they were to the service of the god of seasons and death, and to join them in the catacombs when it was his time. "Though, I must say that I believe, in no small part, that I was put here to protect this place from the darkness that pervades Solitude."
This, meager a comment as it was, caught the three elves' attentions. Athenath was the one to reply to this sort of comment with a question through the curl of their lip, "what kind of darkness could even be in Solitude?"
It was a tone of disbelief and intrigue, mingling like the tea leaves at the bottom of their mugs. The priest licked his lips in an idle motion and rapped his fingers against the sides of his own cup, peering down into its depths. From where Wyndrelis sat, he could see the look of intense contemplation on the other's face, perhaps even a mixture of shame, as though the bearded Nord wanted not to dwell on whatever necessitated warding against. He'd heard stories of priests and mages being the last lines of defense against Daedra, or against the forces which came in the form of hauntings, but he'd never given them much credit, himself. How could he? He'd worked with plenty a spirit, plenty a body, plenty a minor Daedra. It was an inconsequential thing to him, as long as proper precautions were taken. Yet, from the graven look on the Nord's face, he took the moment to acknowledge that perhaps Solitude had darker secrets than he'd been aware of, worse than an execution in the town square.
"This city has a long history of madness and murder," Styrr enunciated. "The Wolf Queen, Pelagius, the death of High King Torygg... And now," he shed a glance towards the door on the far end of the room, peakings of sunlight through the bottom, "public executions. My books tell the stories. Have no doubt - as pretty as its streets are, as jovial as the bards may be, darkness is drawn to Solitude."
Wyndrelis' throat tightened as he asked in a quiet voice, "and of strange dreams?"
The dreams had been what sent him to the library in the first place, for Wyndrelis seldom dreamt. This had been a fact his entire life. It was one that his siblings would joke about being his "curse" in their bloodline, as so many of them suffered vivid nocturnal visions, but he spent the majority of his life without, simply falling into darkness that sped him into the next day. Since arriving in Solitude, he had suffered nightmares, some very small and fragmented, as though washed up on a sea of black sand. Others vivid, warm, and tangible; as though thrust like a fist into a toy fortress of wood, crushing peace to pieces. Some woke him. Others, he slept through. The first was of twin fires, of a clocktower in his hometown and the desolation of Helgen. The next was of dragons, hundreds of them in all different colors, flying overhead until they blotted out the sky. Chief among them was that serpentine shape, the long-winged, red-eyed beast who'd plunged the rest of Wyndrelis' life thus far into chaos. That shape ever grew throughout the dream, until he outgrew Nirn itself, until the world was nothing but the size of a marble, and the beast was the one swallowing it.
He'd woken up with a start after that one. It had been the night before they set out to Fort Hraggstad, and he'd been lucky not to wake the other two. He could still feel the cold sweat down his back as he reflected on it, and shuddered. All he could do now was seek answers.
Ataf had led him to the history section, chatting about which shelves housed which tomes and which sections he could find which authors within, clearly having spent many a long night tucked away in a chair, curled up with several books to cram for an exam that he'd take the next morning. The bard's deep passion for the subjects, for everything he'd learnt and what it had given him, was evident. It sprawled across his features and danced into his words, his fingers plucking loose a couple of things which he thought might be of interest to Wyndrelis. The pair made idle banter a while, the Dunmer doing all he could not to appear disinterested, until Ataf caught the attentions of another year-round student - Illdi, he thought her name was - and rushed off to join her on a walk through the town.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
At last, he found himself alone. He'd found himself a chair under a window and used the light to his advantage, flipping idly through a few pages. The days since the trio's arrival had been nothing but a flurry of deeds and deals and responsibilities breathing down their necks, with little time to breathe. Rarely, moments of calm could seep into the fabric of their days, but it had become fewer and farther between. Now that most business had been handled, Wyndrelis allowed the curiosity which had been set on the backburner to be satiated, the same way one might satiate a hunger gnawing through the delicate lining of their gut. Occasional figures would dart in and out of the library, but none took note of the Dunmer whose face buried itself in the pages of the books Ataf had recommended for him. The drummer - Jorn, he'd managed to recall - had sent a friendly wave his way before turning back to face someone else. When Wyndrelis glanced up, he saw that it was an Argonian with blue scales, his clothing a ruddy hue, his eyes startlingly bright. He'd looked down, and let the pair's whispers be the background music of his research.
"Aye," Jorn had folded his arms over his chest, mimicking the other's disbelief, "a fine man he was, once. Divines know that his betrayal was unexpected."
"Still, a public execution?" The Argonian's voice hitched a tad higher, as though the words pained him. "This city must be losing its mind."
Jorn glanced around. One shoulder, then the other. In a lower voice, just loud enough that Wyndrelis could overhear if he strained, the Nord spoke, "truth be told, I think it's the dreams."
"Ah," the Argonian had breathed what sounded like a sigh of relief, "I'd thought I was the only one."
"No, we've all been getting a little less sleep than usual. It seems that the war has taken its toll on our minds as well as our families."
The Argonian had said something in too quiet a voice for the mage to hear, even if he did strain, so instead he slowed his breathing in order to catch even the faintest glimmer of what direction their conversation may have been taking. He waited and held his breath, only to watch Jorn give a boisterous, rumbly laugh, and a shake of his head.
"I am glad you didn't grow up here, Silm-Tei. You have some interesting things to say about this place. Perhaps it is the year, and not the city, that's truly odd."
The pair grabbed a couple of books from the shelves - books on the Poetic Edda, Wyndrelis noted, the shelf homing them not far from where he sat - before leaving, both apparently preparing for a class that would start tomorrow. The words of the pair had taken their time to sink in, as the Dunmer lowered the book into his lap and mulled it over. He rubbed at his chin with the crook of his thumb. The idea of the dreams not merely being his own troubles had briefly crossed his mind, but he presumed it was a side effect of the situations he'd been tossed into since the moment he'd made it through Pale Pass. Yet, he'd heard many a time - and experienced it himself, for that matter - the ways in which the environment could change one's dreams. Magic had much to do with it, and more now than ever, the notion of something much worse happening beneath the city came to mind.
The idea was merely strengthened by the priests' explanations. Wyndrelis looked to Athenath, whose own brow raised. He'd long let the beetles and worms have their ways with the past he left behind. That was the easiest part. And when he hoisted the skull up every now and again to display to the ones who pried, rightfully, they would shrink away. Recoil, howl at the things he'd once been. Athenath had been far too curious for such recoilings. Wyndrelis looked to the priest again as Athenath began to speak.
"We're, uh, bards," the Altmer managed with a small laugh. Styrr examined them, as though he were trying to discern what they'd meant by the statement. Wyndrelis cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"We're not officially bards," Emeros clarified, "however, we are to become students of the Bard's College as of tomorrow."
"It seems we came to the College at a strange time," Wyndrelis added. Styrr gave a grave nod.
"Strange times all around, it seems. With rumors of dragons, and of the Greybeards summoning someone to High Hrothgar, and the Burning of King Olaf festival indefinitely postponed... Well, it's no use to worry about it. The gods will preserve us, whether we understand it's their doing or not." He sipped his own cup of tea slowly, the Dunmer's eyes locked to the elderly man. His hands were branches of an ancient and weathered tree, and his body the withering trunk. He had to imagine that there would be someone to replace him at this post, should he pass on, but he could not find evidence of any apprentice or descendant to cast the burden onto, which left him with the conclusion that Styrr had yet to pick one who could carry on his work here in Solitude.
"Is there any solution to strange dreams?" To say that the Dunmer was skeptical of the idea a city could, itself, be cursed, was an understatement. Yes, he knew much of ritual and curses, and much of terrible happenings as the result of the works of other mages. A Telvanni had cursed his bloodline; the entire family tree had been withered and magically stunted, after all, until he and his older brother were born under odd stars. The idea was still one he had a hard time entertaining. The idea of a solution to the nightmares was an appealing one, however, and even if he were a mage whose works were direct opposition to Arkay, he'd take whatever the priest could offer if it worked. He wanted one night of good sleep, dreamless sleep, the kind he was accustomed to all his life. Styrr dragged a hand down his face, stroking his long, white beard as he thought on the question.
"I can't say for certain whether I can offer a true solution, but many have had success with simple herbal remedies. Some afflicted by these dreams have turned to skooma, but I'd advise against it. It tends to cause more problems than solve them." After a hefty pause, and some uncomfortable looks between the trio, a lightness drew into his eyes and he offered, "perhaps Sybille Stentor, the court wizard, could be of some help. If not her, then certainly Melaran could certainly give you some idea of what to do."
They resolved that, soon, they would meet with the two the priest had mentioned. The trio continued to speckle questions into conversation with him, learning about the city, about himself, and about the way that things worked in Solitude before the Civil War. When they'd exhausted topics with Styrr and finished their tea, he bid them a long life and told them that he was always around, should they wish to speak more. In some small manner, the bidding to come back any time was more like a plea, as the three Mer all figured that the old man seldom entertained company at this level. Wyndrelis watched the Nord carefully, his kindness only emboldened by a dreadful loneliness he could feel inside the small building, the kind which crept up the walls and into every corner and crevice and dripped like saliva of a great beast. Being the one who tends the Hall of the Dead, he observed, did not leave one with much chance to socialize, especially in his old age. Nor did it add to popularity, as many would likely want to go in to the Hall to gain Arkay's blessing, and not spend their time conversing with the one who tended the altar.
Wyndrelis could understand that sort of isolation. He wondered whether his friends, too, understood it, or if they had never been in such a state.
The college was its usual, jovial self as they entered the building, glad to be out of the sun. Soon, summer would come to a full close, and autumn would sic itself upon them, and with it, the chill in the air and the snow that would bring in winter's frostbitten hands. As the Dunmer found himself again carried on the raven wings of his thoughts, Athenath moved past him, humming as they began the process of opening tomes, reading the first few pages, and replacing them on the shelves. The search caught Emeros' attention as well, the Bosmer folding his arms over his chest and arching his brow. His cowl protected his ears from the sun, but Wyndrelis' own still felt warmed by the light.
"What are you looking for?" Emeros asked, raising his brow. Athenath pulled another book down, frowning, then replaced it.
"Look, I know we're going to talk to the court wizard," Athenath knelt down, examining books on a lower shelf as he spoke, "but I don't want to wait that long, and I doubt you two want to wait, too. Even if we don't find much here, getting any answers at all would be better than just living without an explanation, y'know?"
Emeros paused a second. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, and then, apparently satisfied with this answer, began to search alongside the Altmer. Wyndrelis made a brisk walk past the pair to the history section which Ataf had pointed out to him earlier, and when he got the other two Mer's attentions, he said, "this might be a better area to look. It's... well, it's got books on Solitude's history, I'm certain."
Little came of the search, despite their best efforts. A few notes about Solitude's proximity to strange caves, or its position on a natural arch possibly giving it magical properties - an idea which caused Wyndrelis to snort in amusement - but seldom were dreams a mentioned topic. Dreams themselves, ephemeral things, seemed entirely ommitted. Each tug of a tome by its spine produced less and less of a satisfactory result until the trio had exhausted all their options, and at last returned to the kitchens, defeated. They prepared a platter to share while they talked the day's events over, the discussions with Styrr, the strangeness of it all. The old priest had planted a seed of wondering in each of the Mer's minds, and while the fruits of this tree did not come easy, there were still other ways to approach. Wyndrelis did not want to speak with the court wizard. Her strange, citrine eyes had chilled him to the bone. Never did he feel so much like prey as when she was around. So, he would suggest to speak with Melaran. Less chance of breaking out in a cold sweat that way.
He pushed his glasses up his nose and listened to the other two talk. Athenath insisted they go into town, try to find books from the local merchants, but Emeros merely brushed the idea aside by stating that even if the merchants had a couple of books on the topics they needed, they were not precisely rolling in gold. Selling off the guard armor from Whiterun had been a way to keep themselves afloat, but should they need to purchase books or instruments, or other supplies for the upcoming courses, it would certainly dig into what they had on hand. Athenath, in response, rolled his eyes and let out a dejected sigh before poking his fork into a square of cheese. Wyndrelis chuckled, looked to Emeros, and then to the doorway, where he caught the eye of the Argonian he'd overheard Jorn speaking with earlier.
A chill arched up his spine as the pair made eye contact. He had the distinct feeling that Silm-Tei knew he'd been eavesdropping, but whether or not the blue-scaled man minded was a mystery, until the bard in ruddy clothing cracked a smile and winked. He turned and disappeared down the corridor in time for Emeros to look up, glance between the absent doorway and the mage, and ask him what he'd been staring at for so long. Wyndrelis waved a hand. Dismissed it. It wasn't worth telling. He did tell the Bosmer he'd explain later, but he hoped that the other would forget. He thought again, once the other seemed satisfied, on the idea of magic and its influence, and on the comments Styrr had made of the natural arch imbuing the city with magic merely by its geography.
While Wyndrelis gave little credence to a magical cause being behind his nightmares, he silently pleaded that he was right. That it all meant nothing, and the nights he spent wide awake, heart pounding in his chest from yet another terrible meeting with the red-eyed dragon, were merely products of his imagination.
